


Remembering's Dangerous

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Play, Bottom Sam, Consensual, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, M/M, Mental Instability, Painplay, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Top Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4599072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU In which John has died when the boys are teenagers, and Dean is, responsibly, raising Sam to the best of his ability.<br/>On a side note, Dean Winchester should not go from 0 to 100 whenever his little brother's in pain, and Sammy shouldn't be so damn eager to play this game with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Killing Joke.

They’ve been calling him The Joker since his first night, which, incidentally enough, never happens.

Don’t get named until after the first month, cause Rick likes to see what they’re made of. Always tells Dean never to waste the good names on the good liars.

As if Dean cared enough to pick.

He almost got stuck with the Bastard, which he wouldn’t have minded at all. Been called that for sport, had t-shirts thrown into his face, slapped with his own belt buckles, soft breasts and red eyes

fucking Bastard, Dean Winchester

and he didn’t mean those, either.

Sammy doesn’t call him a bastard anymore, though. Sam’s graduated to better words, words that “truly encompass his disdain,” end quote.

Dean aims his heavy-handed right cross at his imaginary opponent, and the man goes down with a slump, probably cracks his chin on the concrete.

Dean’s not satisfied until there’s a little blood, more the better. He’s gotta touch it. It’s his thing. He ain’t never won any fight before without someone else’s blood on his hands. Remembers John teaching him that, not in those exact words, of course.

Gotta beat him enough so that he knows he’s down, knows he ain’t got no other choice but to stay there.

And Dean likes when they stay there.

He’s big.

He’s got a lot of height and a lot of weight and he’s been using it since he was nine years old. Peaked quick, but he peaked high, stayed taller than everyone, except for the real giants.

Sam’s pushing 6’1, gonna be taller than Dean, soon, still skinny though, wiry strong, and fast. Shouldn’t be that fluid with little-boy muscles, but he’s got speed Dean can only dream of.

Dean’s wrist wraps are chafing, and he hates ‘em. Fucking hates the way they feel, like a noose for his hands. Can’t breathe with them on, and his knuckles already feel like bricks, feel like fucking tempered steel, the way he’s been punching all his life.

He’s doing it pretty consistently now, winning it pretty squarely.

They ask him how, a lot. How he’s twenty years old, beating guys who’ve been around longer than him, broader than him, longer reach. As if Dean’s planning on answering. For my evil plan, please skip to page five, section B.

Dean feints right, attacks the air with a left handed uppercut.

There are a lot of reasons. Some of ‘em have to do with Sammy.

More of ‘em have to do with the way John tied up his right hand, thirteenth summer, and fought him, left handed. Every fight. Every day. Didn’t use his right hand for anything, got a break from the crude restraint an hour a day.

Sammy said his muscles would atrophy otherwise, and Sam’s always right about that shit.

Stepped with his left leg first, always first. Dean feinted left, first, kicked left, first, went down on his left leg, first.

Three months. Got really good at jacking off with his left hand, catch the cum in his palm, smear it on his sheets sometimes, when he was too tired to grab a sock. Also, he didn’t have a free hand to look around, and he wasn’t gonna go leaving cum fingerprints everywhere, was he?

Practiced on Sammy too, in the beginning.

Sam was just figuring out how to swing, piecing together his own brand, own style, and Dean liked that about the kid.

He was putting together a puzzle in his head. Dean put his own spin on things, made it distinctly his own, but Sam wanted a different beast, new, separate monster, and Dean thinks the kid has always been wired that way.

And that’s how Dean found out he was stronger on his right side, but faster on his left.

So maybe, it’s a combination of John and Sam.

Sam’s at home right now, just coming in from soccer, and Dean can set his watch by the kid, he’s that reliable. Probably thinking about trying to sneak a beer (he won’t), and watching porn on the cable that Dean so graciously pays for (he will)

opens a window so Dean can’t smell it when he gets back (he does)

Rick wants him to dye his hair green, really sell the whole Joker angle, and Dean wants him to do the splits on a stapler, which he says, just that way.

Rick’s used to it, laughs, knows (thinks) Dean means no harm by it.

He thinks Dean could really market himself. Dean thinks he already has an advantage. His face is pretty-smooth, knows it is, takes pains to keep it that way. He ain’t vain, doesn’t give a rats ass about what he does or doesn’t look like, but it’s got a beneficial side.

It’s bit him in the ass a time or two, people don’t forget his face

_or m’dick, Sammy, they remember that for years_

and then he can’t hide. But usually, he can get what he needs with few words and a well placed smile, which he prefers to utilize, anyway. He’s pretty enough to be disarming. And all Dean needs is a few wasted seconds of your ogled confusion.

Sometimes, it’s enough to lay a man flat.

Fucking hates those days.

He’s already fought today, used to do two a day, now he does one, feels better about it afterwards, that he’s able to hit and run, cause it’s hard after two. Sometimes he’s too weak for the next round, too many old man creaks and splintered bones.

Remembers slipping to the side, slower than most, on purpose, lets his right foot clip Carter’s left, and there’s a clumsy sprawl. He fights all upper body, then. Dean sets his teeth on that. He likes those. Makes it more fun to dance around, exaggerated slowness. Those days are Dean’s Disneyland, and he wants to go on a roller coaster.

He’ll never vomit, he’s got an iron stomach, even more inflexible will.

Rick tells him to get the fuck out, cause he’s gotta get home to Mrs. Rick, and she don’t serve dinner late in her house.

Dean runs home. S’not that far and he can’t pick Sam up on Wednesday’s cause he’s got obligations, and he’ll be damned if he lets the kid walk back.

Not that Sam wouldn’t be fine, but he’s got soccer on Wednesday, and it’s his long day, and he gets clumsy when he’s tired. Walked into doors like clockwork when he was five, couldn’t hold his head upright or his feet straight.

Sammy’s graduated to Impala gifting once a week, kid’s over the moon. He figures he’ll get his fingers sloppy wet in some pussy a little bit easier with that, and Dean’s always been fair, if nothing else.

No sense in wasting the joys when he could be passing it down.

Sam wouldn’t tell him about it if he did. Maybe with just enough beer to make him loose, but not voluntarily.

Sam’s got class.

So, Dean runs. Got shin splints, hurt like shit every time he wakes up, stiff, even though he rubs them religiously, makes Sam nudge at ‘em hard, when they’re watching Law And Order, cause Sam likes to pick apart plot holes.

Dean likes to solve the crimes in less time than they take to explain them. He and Sam have a pretty good track record going on that. He ain’t keeping score but he knows Sammy is, probably has the whole thing tallied up somewhere, chalkboard of figures.

He gets back at five on the dot. He’s never late, doesn’t like it, makes his skin crawl and his heart starts climbing his chest to make a home in his throat.

They’re punctual people.

House is pale yellow, Sam thinks it’s got character, Dean thinks Oscar the Grouch lives outside in the trash can, but he hasn’t gotten around to painting the damn thing yet. Sam’s sweaty jersey is hanging on the left-hand doorknob, same as every day, number 14.

It’s Sam’s flag, hangs it in the same place, next to the black and white photograph of the ‘57 Corvette that Sam made for him for his birthday. Let’s Dean know he’s home, even though they both pretend Dean doesn’t know it, and that’s not why Sam does it.

He takes it down and flings it in the general direction of the living room, watches it clip the backside of the dark leather couch and settle against the top of Sam’s hair, which is already curling, whether from sweat or shower, Dean doesn’t want to know.

Sam grunts once, acknowledgement, turns his face halfway in Dean’s direction, and he can see Sam’s high red flush. No shower, then.

“Fucking shower, Sam. M’not feeding you til you’re clean.” Sam snorts, and Dean can see the long strip of dirt from his neck to his pec.

“I know. I like to time it so I’m done showering when dinner’s ready Fucking hate waiting.”

“Stop cussin.” Dean says this last automatically, and Sam’s in a good mood, cause he only sighs in response, instead of telling Dean just where he’s allowed to stick his _goddamned rules_

Sam charges upstairs, knocking his shoulder heavily into Dean’s right one, and it hurts more than it should, probably due to the glancing blow he took on it today. Dean curses a blue streak in his mind, keeps his head lowered, counts to ten in Spanish.

Dean waits until he can hear the sound of the pipes creaking to slump heavily in a chair.

His body shudders once, and then three times in rapid succession and he stands up abruptly, knocks his chair over backwards and moves away from the table. Wasn’t enough, today then.

Fuck

He hates days like this, mostly because he never knows when they’re gonna be days like this. He takes his first hit against the reinforced wall in the corridor before the front door.

He alternates fists, right and then left, two lefts then one right, keeps himself on his toes.

Does it until he feels his knuckles split, sees a smear of blood with his last punch. Knows he won’t be able to uncurl his hands tomorrow, not without ice, and he washes them gingerly, best he can do before Sammy inevitably sees.

Goddamn it, Sammy was in a good mood, too.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to heat up.

Dean wraps his hand in an ace bandage and wonders what he’s supposed to tell Sammy this time.

Sam knows he boxes in his free time, there’s no other way to explain the amount of damage that he sustains on his body without that explanation.

Doesn’t understand the way that he got his name, doesn’t know what his name is.

Might as well be Jerk, in Sam’s mind, interspersed with the occasional Bastard, when Sam’s feeling especially creative.

He meant to cook a real dinner too, Basque Lamb Stew, to be exact, cause Sam has left four cookbooks lying around since last year, when Dean stopped putting together mac and cheese concoctions for Sam to slog through before the sun was even ripe in the sky.

Kid can’t cook to save his life. Understands how to cook, in theory, but he’s the one who taught Sam that theory wasn’t everything, and monsters still existed in the light and they’d love to prove him wrong.

Dean calls for Sam half-heartedly, and Dean hears the shower turn off like clockwork, wonders how he never noticed that the kid timed it perfectly, even though he knows Sam’s anal about shit like that.

Sam comes to the table soaking wet, hasn’t dried himself off since he was five and told Dad he wanted to air dry like a plane.

John would look at Sammy with that fondness that broke little pieces in Dean’s chest. Half and half, love and sorrow, not sorrow for what could have been, but what his love would’ve looked like to Sam if it wasn’t the jagged shard it became.

His boy is too thin, bothers him that he can’t keep up with the kid’s freak metabolism, even though he brings in more than enough money to keep them in food.

Dean’s on a first name basis with Bryan at the Deli, is three-fourths of the way to discounted meat if he buys in bulk.

Sam’s hair is starting that heat-wet curl it does around the tops of his ears, and it’s slapping damp against his forehead, tendrils teasing his eyelashes.

He’s shirtless, water frozen on muscle, drying too quickly to travel south any longer.

Dean didn’t make the stew.

Sam raises his eyebrows at the sandwiches Dean’s making right in front of him, something he refrains from bitching over, if at all possible, but accepts his four graciously, licks excess mayonnaise off of his thumbs.

Dean’s not trying to hide his self-inflicted injury, it’s the easiest way to get caught, but Sam notices anyway, notices everything but the things Dean actually goes to great lengths to hide.

“What is that?” Sam’s voice is level, learned that it’s best not to antagonize Dean whenever he finds something new.

One and only time Sam yelled at him for it, Dean left for two days and came back slightly concussed and with a temporary limp, but five hundred bucks richer for it, a fact he made sure Sam wasn’t privy to.

Dean doesn’t look at him, shoves half of his sandwich in his mouth at once in avoidance.

“Hit the wall.”

He says, voice just as monotone as Sam’s.

Sam hums, and Dean makes his first error, because he teeters backwards in his chair when Sam rises bodily and grabs him by the scruff of his shirt, wraps tan fingers in the neck and jerks Dean forward with that new strength he’s still working his way around.

“You gonna talk to me this time? Or you coming home in three days, fuck me up at school so I can’t think straight? Leave me alone when you promised you never would.”

That’s a lower blow than Dean could ever give himself, and it strikes something so foul in Dean that he jerks out of Sam’s grasp and knocks the wooden chair over with an eerily loud clatter.

Dean’s fingers are spasming. The shock of agony on his bruised hand hurts good, but fuck it’s still burning his way through his system, and Sam’s breathing so damn close, doesn’t know he’s kindling to a flame.

“Fucking let me alone, Sam. I can’t fucking stay when you’re like this.”

Sam’s chest is heaving, and he leans forward, not a giant stretch, and shoves Dean away with such righteous indignation that the small of Dean’s back clips the edge of the kitchen counter. The pain trickles through his spine and Dean freezes there, lets it course through him, accepting it just before he falls off the edge.

“Sam. You gotta stay the fuck back.”

This is the most Dean’s ever done, ever would even attempt to do, and only because it’s Sam. He hasn’t pushed the pieces of Sam back together in a salvageable manner to desecrate it like this.

Sam climbs into his personal space, spider limbs, because Sam can’t do what he’s told, not ever, and Dean consciously considers that it might be the cause of his death one day.

“If you’re looking for a fight, _brother,_ m’right here.”

There’s the tipping point.

Dean’s careful not to reach it. It’s the place just before, I’ve had enough drinks and, fuck, let me jack off across the bar and rub my jizz into the countertop. It’s the sliver of time between night and sunrise, the median.

Sam doesn’t know. Cause how could he?

He’s never been to the in-between.

Dean knocks Sam backwards with a one handed shove, feels the heel of his palm connect with the soft space in the middle of Sam’s shoulder and collarbone. His brother goes down on one hip, not braced well, cause he’s in basketball shorts and socks, and that’s not fair.

Sam’s head is facing away from his, and his curtain of hair leaks over one cheek, and Dean doesn’t know how to be, not when he’s created Sam this way, when he’s laid a hand on a house of cards he fucking built from scratch.

“Fucking A, Sammy, lookit me.”

When Sam turns, Dean stumbles, because his brother’s eyes are fever bright, and he feels the precipice again, like he never fell at all, like he’s only been looking at a dream of a dream, the nightmare that he plummeted.

“Fucking looking, Dean.”

Dean’s around the table in two seconds, can’t tell if Sam’s hurt, or maybe concussed, why his brother looks like he’s been smearing Jolly Ranchers all over his lips, cocaine high of his eyes. Why Sammy took that fall when he’s faster than that, smarter.

Dean’s eyes travel over Sam’s prone form, his torso is twisted to face his brother and he hasn’t said a word, but he looks like he’s dying, like Dean’s the one lowering him to his to his grave.

He sees a white strap peeking out above the dark blue Nike shorts and his mind short-circuits, tries to figure out if Sammy is wearing a thong.

He wants to punch his brother’s fruit-wet mouth until it fills with blood, and now he might be concerned that the kid’s sporting lingerie in his free time. His mind settles when he remembers that the kid had practice earlier, and it’s more likely his jockstrap.

Makes better sense now, but still none at all cause the kid just showered.

Why the fuck would he have put it _back on_

Dean must make a noise, some kind of animalistic wound because Sam huffs out his own air, expels it violently and raises his hips gingerly, just high enough to tug his shorts down past the cleft of his ass.

“Jesus fuck, Sammy. Oh, Jesus what the fuck.”

Dean’s never prayed but he’s a believer now, makes the sign of the cross and begs anyone to come and beam him up, because he’s staring at the firm, well-rounded peach of his brother’s ass, and Sam’s propping it up, sinner’s offering.

“Wore it for you.” It’s low, when it’s said, so low Dean thinks it might be God verbally answering his prayers this instant.

“Didn’t wash it. I fucking heard you, Dean. Hear you every time you do some stupid shit like this.” Sam turns so his stomach is stuck completely to the linoleum floor, shorts rucked around his tan thighs.

“You wanna be so angry, Dean? You stay right the fuck here and be pissed.”

Sam doesn’t know the gravity of what he’s asking, the way Dean wants to tear into what’s laid before him, make it burn crimson, bleed bone. Tear Sam apart and hope he can Frankenstein him back with any finesse.

“This ain’t--this ain’t fucking right, Sam.” Sam’s face is indignant, doesn’t even have to see to tell, but he plunges on ahead regardless. “I won’t do right by you. You can’t give me what I need.”

Hurts to say it like that, lay it bare for Sam to read, but that’s where they stand. Sam’s never been a miracle worker.

Sam pushes his ass higher in the air and Dean presses down on his dick with both palms.

“Cause I’m your little brother?” Sam sneers contemptuously, knows exactly what Dean thinks about following any kind of rules, any form of God.

“Or because you wanna hurt me? Cause you wanna make me cry?”

Dean’s hand flutters forward of their own accord, landing so sharply on Sam’s exposed backside that the kid does actually sob out, hipbones smacking against the unforgiving floor.

“Sam, I wanna make you bleed. You don’t even know.”

_wanna kill you so I can have you_

Sam presses his ass back, and it’s bee-stung pink, left cheek, got Dean’s fingers on it. He slaps the other without warning, and then decides not to stop. He slaps with his right hand and uses his left to press Sam’s cheek into the floor, holds him stationary even as the floor beneath his face grows slick with tears.

He stops spanking long enough to grab the strap and jerk it as far as he can into his brother’s ass, makeshift slingshot, can hear Sam whining, wet hiccups lodged in his throat.

“Fuck, please, Dean. Please. Gonna hurt me? Fuck, I’ll do it, I’ll do everything--”

Dean drags his brother’s body back and forth by the strap, knows the friction is burning on Sam’s open chest, the strap is chafing his brother’s hole, and it’s red and puffy, and Dean has the most delicious idea.

He pulls the strap aside gingerly, fucking loves that thing, and lines his fingers up carefully with the wrinkled furl, cause he’s only got one shot.

Sam screams, top of his lungs, when Dean breaches him, cause it’s too dry and too fucking hot, feels like death’s settling in his bones.

Dean drags them in and out, too soon, sees a little blood collecting around his fingertips from where he’s torn his brother’s ass, and he can’t, fuck he can’t think like this. He can’t breathe, way he’s feeling and his dick’s gonna come untouched. He’s gonna fucking come in his jeans.

Dean twists his knuckles brutally, watches Sam’s bony knees lock up and struggle for purchase on the slippery floor.

“unh, unh unh Dean fuck, burns so bad, Dean fuck, hurts hurts hurts”

But he’s pushing back into his big brother’s hand, and Dean doesn’t know where right and left intersect, doesn’t matter though, cause he’s about to die here, this time in space.

“For the Love of God, Sam, m’gonna kill you. Swear it.”

They both come simultaneously, Dean tugs the jockstrap up until Sam’s sobbing as he releases, balls chafed and sore, dry bones in his ass, cheeks swollen with spit and blood.


	3. Chapter 3

They wanna know how he got all his scars.

They think it’s clever, but really, they have no idea why his body looks the way it does, mosaic of art and agony, burnt siennas and scarlet.

This is the first question Ivan Mirkov asked him, just before the beginning of Dean’s first match. They’re dancing around one another, in practice, because Dean doesn’t believe in stretching, but he does believe in staying active, feints and jumps in place because stagnancy is the way to an early grave.

He’s never fought before, not semi-professionally, only fist fights in partially abandoned parking lots, teenage angst and misplaced honor. Threatened to rip spine from flesh if anyone even looked at Sammy, much less touched him.

He’s known how to fight night-creatures, things that only exist in Grimm’s fairy tales and sociopathic nightmares. He knows how to combat things that want him dead, have no level that isn’t inherently set to kill, things that can’t compute mercy.

Dean smiles broadly at the question, expected it, but thought maybe the guy would have the tact to wait after the match was over.

They called him Ivan the Terrible. That’s the name he wanted, the one he asked for. Said they  used to call him that when he used to fight as a kid near the Volga River, in Astrakhan. Wind chill and might, he always said. They called him that, little Ivan the Terrible, fourteen years old and still growing.

He wanted that, here. Came to the States after the Wall fell, and he’s been here ever since.

Parents are dead, wife died in a train accident, and Ivan knows how to work with cars, and his fists.

Dean’s seen men like him on the hunt. They define themselves in and about the hunt, and there’s no separation of Church and State.

Dean’s a hunter, and his life is the hunt, but that doesn’t mean they’re synonymous.

Dean starts with a fist to Ivan’s teeth, because the man is 6’2, and he’s laughing too hard to pay attention to the way Dean’s moving in and out of his field of vision.

The man doubles over in pain, mouth shots are cheap but effective, and Dean really cannot stand to hear this man’s voice another second longer.

Dean waits until he’s upright, mouth full of liquid sin, to retreat, holds his fists protectively in front of his face. That’s the big paying merchandise right there. That’s always gotten him everything he wanted and some of what he didn’t.

Ivan fights heavy. His steps are ponderous and he would be a laughably easy opponent were it not for the sharp direction of his fists. He may be slow, and that’s an understatement, but when he connects Dean feels it in his marrow, bright hot flash of pain to his mind.

It’s what turns the tide in his favor. Dean absorbs the hits the way he’s always done so, the way he was trained. Little to no fanfare, favors his less injured side until he can regain his equilibrium. He’s not supposed to do that for long, because that’s a plainly visible weakness.

Ivan has a weak hip.

Dean noticed it when he first walked in the locker room to change. He’s good about hiding it, whether it’s for a fight, or for self-respect, but he leans heavier on his left side. It shows, if you know what you’re looking for.

Ivan’s lip is twice its normal size, and Dean’s left cheek is ticking like a pulse with the blow that glanced off of it. He’s hot-rain right now, and when he comes in close, gives up distance for proximity-based impact, he suffers for it, two blows to the top of his head, scythe and sickle, and he drops to his right knee involuntarily.

But when he connects to Ivan’s right hip with three punishing hits, he can hear the give of tissue before he hears the crack of bone, and Ivan’s shadow disappears from above him. It’s death to light, and Dean flops gracelessly on his ass, because his right knee isn’t as young as it used to be, and he probably needs to invest in a brace.

Ivan’s crying, nasty ugly, and he’s having trouble breathing through the pain.

They sidestep Dean to get to Ivan, crowd favorite, unruly father figure with a penchant for too much drink and not enough sleep.

Dean slithers through the spectators, and Rick’s maniacal hands, until he’s leaning over top of Ivan, sightless brown eyes.

“Cause I get a new one every time I win.” Dean doesn’t know if Ivan ever heard his answer, cause he doesn’t return, and they clear out his locker and all that’s left is his smiling picture on the wall of fame.

Rick hears him just fine, claps his hands and looks askance at Dean, blood-flicker of light on his bruised cheekbone.

“Fucking wanna be a joker kid? You already won.”

They don’t ever call him Dean again, and it’s just as well, because Dean doesn’t belong in there, anyway.

Dean leaves Sammy on the tile, red thighs and stuttered breaths, and he runs. Fucking runs three miles til his knee protests, then he runs three more, and doesn’t get home til well after midnight.

He doesn’t expect Sam to be in the kitchen when he gets back, trips over the trash can the kid put right in front of the door, fuck him, but the room is clean of any evidence of the issue.

He’s dead on his feet, monster in his bones, and he doesn’t have any dreams.

Sammy doesn’t say a word about it the next day, or the one after that. Shrugs his jersey on same as always, and Dean can’t help it that he chubs up like clockwork when Sam’s in his uniform, cause he knows the kid’s got his jockstrap on underneath it all, and it’s hugging everything Dean wants to defile.

He’s not supposed to want this, didn’t ask for this to sit in his veins. Wants to do right by Sammy, and that means leaving him the hell alone. Giving him food and money and licking the stamps on all those applications his brother’s gonna mail off.

He has some good days. He doesn’t feel it, knives in his skin, and he can take deep breaths without worrying about where they’re gonna go, or what they’ll feel like.

Sam throws sweat-nasty shoes at his face when Dean comes home from the Heating Repair Company where he works. He likes what he does. Keeps his hands dirty and it’s simple enough that he doesn’t have to think his way through it.

He fixes air conditioning too, and they like how quiet he is. Pay him honorably, pay stubs included, and he could give Sammy more than enough with that job alone. Rather spend his days fucking around with engine oil and heat exchangers, but there’s not a lot of opportunity, and he’s doing one thing he loves, already.

Sam doesn’t talk with his mouth full at dinner, but he tells Dean about the thesis he needs to submit for this research magazine on the role of bacteriocins in food safety, and Dean had to say that seven times to get it close to right. He’s pretty sure Sam made that shit up to fuck with him, but Sam smiles real big and says no he didn’t, and would Dean like to read it?

So Dean’s not surprised when he comes home to find Sam curled up in his bed, naked as the day he was born, cheek smashed pillow-bright and warm. He’s angry though, because this is not something he _needs._

He touches him gently, one shoulder blade, and scoots back anxiously. Dean’s never run from anything but hell if he doesn’t wanna start now.

Sam stirs quick, never outgrew the necessary habit of having to wake up at the slightest huff of air. Sam rolls onto his side, feline, and blinks up at Dean through heavy eyes.

“M’fucking tired.” Dean clears his throat. “Can tell. You’re in my bed, Sammy.” He leaves off the part where Sam is naked, and Dean can see his dick from the corner of his eye, pretty blush and curved, sleep-hard. It twitches just once, brief flicker of movement, and Dean scrambles back.

Sam’s eyes get big, and he snaps down on his lower lip like a lifeline.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep here.” He lowers his eyes and Dean scoots back another half inch, takes deep controlled breaths to his mouth. Doesn’t want to smell that SamSmell, warm boy and graveyard dirt.

Sam looks back up, fiddles with the open sheets by his side.

“Couldn’t sit all last week,” he mumbles, and it’s just quiet enough that Dean almost misses the challenge in the words.

“Didn’t ask you to stay, Sam.”

The words are out before Dean has a chance to taste regret, and fuck, that’s not what it’s supposed to be like, he’s not supposed to say that to _Sam._

Sam scrambles to his knees, sharp bones, accusation in his face.

“But you didn’t say no, either, Dean. You fucking liked it. Don’t lie to my face about it.” Sam presses his thin body against Dean’s and Dean’s acutely aware that he smells like lighter fluid and grease.

“You want it again, too.” Dean closes his fingers around his brother’s fleshy upper arms and exhales. “You can’t ask. That’s fine.” He whispers. “I’ll ask for you. Want you to do it again. Just like that.”

Dean closes his eyes tighter, and the more he digs his fingernails into dove-smooth skin his dick jumps erratically, and it’s fighting with his zipper.

“I gotta do everything, Dean?” Sam’s voice is too high, but his words are serrated knives, and Dean removes his right hand and curls it around his little brother’s throat, so tight that he hears the gurgle Sam makes as his air supply is abruptly cut short.

“You over here acting like you want this. Like you want everything I got. This ain’t fucking _fun_ , Sam, and it’s sure as hell not right.”

His brother’s face is leaching color, can feel the limp struggle of Sam’s hand by his side. Dean watches his brother’s mouth grow slack, spit shine on his lower lip, pupils onyx.

Dean releases when Sam’s body grows placid and unresisting, and his brother sputters back to life, gasp of air after the ocean.

Dean can see his the print of his hand outlined on the slim neck, milk and honey, and he’s pressing a palm flat to his jeans in earnest. He wants to come on that neck, give it another necklace to layer over top.

Sam’s fingertips flutter over the temporary wound, and Dean coughs loudly when Sam’s digits slip between his asscheeks

_legs spread wide_

and his little index breaches his hole, knife in water.

“Gonna come, gonna come just like this, oh, fuck, like this”

Sammy doesn’t even know he’s talking, and he’s riding his little finger for all he’s worth, bird fragile legs in a mountainous V.

Dean stretches between them, caught like a fly, and he’s pushing his right thumb in alongside Sam’s own finger, dirty hot heat, plier clinch.

“Fuck yourself like this, Sam. Yours and mine.” His brother keens, high and shrill in his throat. “Can’t, Dean, s’not enough.” Sam’s barely making any sense, hair damp against his forehead, and Dean knocks his legs wider with one fist, so instead of flat feet on the bed, they’re open, indian-style, around Dean’s own hips.

“Yes you can, Sam. I seen you do it before. I wanna hear those pretty sounds you make.” Dean’s words have a disconnect to his brain, talking like he’s talked a thousand times before, but he means it. Wants everything he’s spitting out at Sam to say, every desperate breath.

Sam’s crying, and his ass is flushed pink, hole winking around Dean’s thicker finger. Dean leans forward and bites directly on the inside of Sam’s thigh, and his brother’s whole body arches off of the bed with a scream.

Dean taps the red-white wound with his free hand, presses down with his thumb, and Sam’s tears get a little rougher. Dean reaches across the narrow expanse of Sam’s chest, blindly, until his hand grazes across a stiff little nipple.

Sam gasps at the contact, stuttered sentences. “Please, please, fucking do it.”

And Dean does.

Corkscrews it so violently that he trembles at Sam’s pleading response, way Sam tries to lock his legs closed.

“Keep ‘em the fuck open, Sam.” He says lowly. “M’gonna give you what the fuck you wanted.”

He’s seeing double, he’s so livid, and his dick is chafed from the uncomfortable way it’s tenting his jeans. But he wants this more, wants to see this fucked out, dirty-wet mess of his brother, crying all high at the way it _feels_ when Dean scrapes flesh blistered.

And he keeps _tempting_ him. Fucking fighting fire with kerosene, all shy sweet in his bed, smooth ass and fork in the road legs. Dean lets out a strangled shout, and Sam’s body twinges upon hearing it. Dean leans up on his knees, works his thumb a little deeper and looks at the way his brother’s eyes are scrunched so tight, dew wet lashes.

“Look at me, Sam. Fucking open your motherfucking eyes!” Sam’s frightened, he can see it in the way his brother blinks, one two three, never sees Dean’s open handed slap as it strikes his right cheekbone, sends his brother’s teeth rattling in his skull, head ricocheting to the left.

Splits his brother’s lip and Dean kitten licks the blood up, and then he feels Sam’s ass visibly clench around his finger, and he’s coming, fireworks across Dean’s grey t-shirt and lower abdomen. He feels it twitch against Sam’s lower stomach, and the way Sam doesn’t stop crying, all the way through it.

Sam scoots up the bed, and Dean’s finger slides free. He uses his liberated hand to brace his body over his brother’s and looks at the ugly crimson mark he’s made across his brother’s face, the way he hit him, made his neck break and his eyes water.

“Jesus fuck. Sammy. Sammy. Oh, fuck. Oh _fuck._ ”

Dean unfolds his body, but Sam’s quick, snakes his hand out and clamps it firmly around Dean’s wrist.

“Be quiet, Dean. Just shut up.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

Dean’s not built for this thing that Sam’s dancing to, this fine line that only he seems able to understand.

He needs to get away, can’t be around Sam when he’s wired all broken, course, Sammy won’t let him do any such thing. He’s not allowed to preserve himself. He remembers being seventeen, last time Dad was good and breathing, salt and pepper.

Remembers leaving Sam in the car. Kid had a test the next day and he couldn’t stay alone but he couldn’t go in, either. Locked in the backseat, slice of melon grin cause he got to stretch all the way out

_no shoes, Sammy_

and it’s not hard, simple salt n’ burn, cause they’ve already gotten the rose-gold ring that belonged to Marie Eddleston, last thing holding her to this plane. She was old southern money, blueblood, and according to her very virile extended family,

“Grandmama was very used to getting her way.”

So, it’s not really a surprise to note that Marie isn’t exactly pleased to be dead, removed from her worldly goods and her 45 year old husband, considerably more sprightly than her ninety years.

Things get real suspect about the minute they enter the house. It’s abandoned, used to be slave quarters way back when Charleston was overtly segregated, and not the attempted reform it is now.

Marie's family owned it, and furthermore, utilized it, and she wasn't too keen on destroying her heritage.

She's dead, now, and the rest of the family is more than willing to burn the quarters down. They're badly decayed and not something that the younger generation wants to be associated with any longer.

Sam says he's a proponent for both sides, but if they need to burn it down when they burn the ring, he's got no real issues with it.

The wood is crumbling beneath their feet as they cross the threshold, and Dean can count on one hand the amount of times a case has gone to shit as fast as this one does.

It's a Preta.

Dean's always worked under the assumption that you couldn't see the beings, and he doesn't know if it's beneficial or not that that particular rule has been countered null and void.

Marie must've traveled overseas. Marie must've pissed someone off with a lot of power, because now her karma is eating her alive.

Dean glances at John, wants to see if his father has seen her yet, but the man's head is down, he's digging in his pocket for the ring, even though that doesn't matter in the slightest, not anymore.

"Dad!" His voice is shrill, because Preta are insatiable. They did not come here prepared to deal with this outcome.

They didn't come here with jack shit, Dean realizes belatedly.

If Sammy were here, he'd be able to rattle off everything they knew about the starving spirit, and Dean might be able to turn this situation into something resembling hope.

As it is, John looks up and squirms his hand free from his pocket, only to load his gun with rocksalt.

"Back up, Dean. Gonna hold it off. We gotta get outta here."

He fires two rounds, real quick and it's clearly very painful, slows her down, but she's more corporeal than a regular ghost, and doesn't dissipate.

"Go on, warn Sam. Wanna figure out how to kill this bitch." His words are heavy with sweat and air loss.

Marie's not moving slowly, she's coming at them briskly, more like a swift jog.

Dean doesn’t want to leave, Jesus Christ, John’s not weak, he’s got extensive knowledge on folklore that Dean’s only tasting for the first time, but he’s got no backup. He doesn’t have what he needs to make this a sure thing.

Dean learns a lesson in hesitation, and it’s something that he’ll never forget. Not at night, when he’s running, six miles a day, shin splints making every walking step burn like cigarette smoke. Not when he hits Carter Flanagan in his solar plexus, tries to beat him so bloody Rick screams at him, laugh-yell

_s’all fun and games til somebody bleeds, huh Winchester?_

Because John’s looking right at him, mouth open, soundless, because Dean’s not moving, he’s not leaving when John told him to get the fuck _outside_ and go to Sam.

Preta moves like directed lightning, mauls the skin off of his father’s face in little clumps. Marie’s got about four clumps of hair left on her head, and Dean watches some of it fall out right where he’s standing.

She’s emaciated. He can count each rib on her body and her stomach is distended. Her limbs are thin as lamb-legs, and he thinks that she would be easy to kill.

But she’s fucking starving, and her food of choice seems to be internal organs.

John falls to the ground so heavily he drops his weapon in the effort of covering what remains of his face. She’s ripping into the toned flesh of his belly, and Dean rushes forward, seems like it took so long, but it was maybe fifteen seconds, in all actuality.

He juts the butt of his gun into the back of her skull and she falters, screams, and it’s a high pitched yell, mingles with the wet gurgle of cries from his father.

He shoots a whole round into her body and nothing, she’s still fucking clawing, side of her head smashed in. She needs a spell. There’s some kind of spell to undo what she is, but Dean doesn’t know it offhand, it isn’t even close to English.

He does the only other thing he can think of. He grabs her by the neck and yanks, needs to dislodge her from his father in anyway possible. He can’t tell what her hands were doing, just knows they were covered in viscous blood, shorn skin around her forearms, opening up his father’s body like Christmas dinner.

He hears a squelch as he pulls her away, and John lets out one terrifying yell, and then it cuts off, radio silence.

Dean drops Marie, and she doesn’t lunge back to her former position, she curls into the corner, wet snarls escaping her throat.

He skins his knees, wrecks his jeans sliding over to his father, can feel the gritty burn of dirt and blood mixing.

He sinks back on his haunches when he gets close, vomits a mostly clear fluid just to the left of his father’s body, too shaken to get further away.

And when he turns to the corner, to see what Marie has done, to look at this thing they thought they knew, what they thought they had finished, she’s wailing, under her breath, because in the end, she’s preta, and she cannot gain satisfaction from her food of choice.

He watches as the remains of his father’s heart slide between chopstick fingers and squish on the ground beneath her.

He smashes her in the face with his gun as many times as he can, flecks of John’s blood landing on his cheeks as she tries to defend herself with gory palms.

He beats her into submission, eventually.

It takes twenty minutes, and she’s not dead, but she’s listless in the corner, rocks back and forth, holding her middle in agony.

Dean covers John’s face with the remains of his father’s shirt. That’s something he cannot tolerate the sight of, and he doesn’t want Sammy to see. His knees buckle when he lifts his father, and he knows he won’t be able to withstand the weight for long, adrenaline or not.

The first time Sam’s ever listened to one of them, and Dean can honestly say he’s grateful. He can only get by if he knows that he’s the only one to see this, he’ll be the only one to carry this, for the rest of his life.

Finds a spot in back of the house with shallow earth, and returns to the trunk of the Impala for a shovel. Sneaks a peek in the back to realize that this is why Sammy really stayed, he was asleep. Knocked out, book flat on his chest.

His brother startles awake, completely aware in seconds, hunters reflex.

“What’s up? You good, Dean?” Dean hums noncommittally, grabs the shovel and slams the hood down with so much force the car shivers in place.

“Dean?”

His brother’s voice is lower, and there’s a quality thrumming in it that Dean can’t stand. Sammy knows something’s up.

“I’ll be right back. Stay in the damn car, Sam.”

He can hear the beginning of an argument but he steps quickly away. He’s got to bury his father and then drive off with Sam, figure out how to tell his little brother that he’s only got one person left to love.

Dean figures if there’s a God, they must love Sammy, just a little, and they must want him sent to Hell faster than originally planned.

He’s less than surprised when he hears Sam’s unsubtle march in his direction, but John’s mostly covered, soft, thick earth, and Dean’s never gonna get a better time than this.

Sam doesn’t scream. Body gets deathly still, and Dean can see his profile in the moonlight, way he sways in his spot, so damn thin and fragile. Dean’s heart breaks in four places when he looks at him, looks at all the things he can’t replace.

“Dean.” There’s so much in his name, and Dean keeps shoveling, grunts once.

“Dean, it was a salt ‘n burn. You were supposed to burn her ring.” He doesn’t look, knows Sammy’s eyes are gonna be wild now, Medusa snakes.

“You told me! You do this all the time!”

Dean likes how Sam doesn’t ask if that’s Dad. He’ll be pragmatic, to the end, Dean assumes.

“We do this all the time. I fell asleep--Dean I didn’t mean to, I fucking swear--”

Dean drops the shovel with a dull thump, because Sam’s voice is rising, and Dean can’t even remember if he’s the same kid he was, when he backhands Sam so hard his brother’s face ricochets and then settles. Dean grabs him by his little boy collar, warm dirty cotton, and tugs him in so close that Sam’s crying and suffocating all at once.

“M’sorry, Sammy. I’m sorry. You were gettin’ hysterical, Sam, and we ain’t got time-- I gotta bury him, then we gotta go, you hear me?”

He whispers it into Sam’s hair, and he’s making soundless, damp noises against Dean’s collarbone, and Dean feels something heavy curl up in his heart and start to wither, lets it rot where it hangs.

Doesn’t tell Sam until later what it was, and Sam doesn’t ask any questions for a long time after that. They’re mostly okay now.

A little chipped, but they fit together alright. Sam’s in a good school, plays sports, has tons of friends.

Dean shakes a little when he thinks of that, when he shoves a pillow under his brother’s slim hips and raises his ass to eye level.

He presses the flat of his tongue against Sam’s pucker and his brother keens, already crying with the way Dean’s slapped his balls mercilessly, the way they hang red and swollen because Dean won’t let him come.

Dean doesn’t touch himself, can only focus on the winking way his brother’s ass greets him, greedy and shy all at once.

He presses the tip of his thumb in the entrance and hums in Sam’s direction.

“Fuck yourself on it, baby. Hard as you can.” Sam whimpers, barely there breaths, and rocks backwards, crying out when Dean casually slaps his nuts, open-handed.

Dean hopes he dies before Sam ever gets the chance to.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rap lyric taken from Something Wicked, by Tupac.

Dean’s nineteen the first time he ever gets fucked up the ass, and he’ll never forget what that’s like.

He’s got Sammy enrolled in every kind of therapy there is, cause God knows he needs it, the kid’ll burst into flames if Dean gets close enough to touch, and that’s a Judgment Day fact.

Louisiana is sticky with dirt-grime and history, enough voodoo magick down here to keep Sam occupied, and them relatively safe.

Dean’s not fond of dancing around the powers that be, and, as it turns out, even evil’s got a calling card.

Sammy’s still licorice sweet, soft skin of the young, and he’s looking at Dean with eyes too large for his face, collarbone jutting out from underneath Dean’s UGA hoodie. There’s nothing of a child in there, though, and that’s got Dean running, tail tucked between his legs.

Objectively, Dean knows how well he cleans up. He’s not keen on trying, thinks that he should just let his face do the talking for him, but sometimes, it’s less of a hassle if he doesn’t have to pave the way with a veneer of charm, first.

Sammy doesn’t know him like this, and, with any luck, he never will. Never see Dean painted, bastard geisha, too-full lips and not enough heart.

John had sneered about that. Loved him, that’s true enough, but he’s the foundation under all of Dean’s walls, the way he can’t let go, because what’s beneath is too light to be seen.

Took Dean close and warned him, steady tone, like if he said it quiet it wasn't as honest.

_They're gonna remember you._

And he couldn't understand why his father looked at him like that, why he had a face like rain.

So, Dean resists the urge to smirk when he walks in, because that’s not what he’s about.

Not tonight.

Likes Cadillac Cafe because it’s dark.

Fucking wide-open, like night, and they serve ladies free drinks for three full hours on Thursdays. He didn’t come on Thursday, though, cause he’s not in a pissing contest to see how many women he can date-rape and drop back home, squandered panties like used tissues in the bottom of his car.

He wants a little bite in his kiss, thanks.

So he’s here on a Saturday, and it’s loud. They have live bands at 6, and it’s Metallica tribute night, little Megadeth thrown in at the end that they probably think Dean won’t notice, but he does.

How’s he supposed to miss _In My Darkest Hour_

They won’t start playing rap til later on in the night, and he’s got no problem with it, sometimes they’re saying shit he doesn’t know how to think,

_broke, choked on a rope, then smoked_

And how’s he supposed to explain that any better? He’s telling Dean who he is, what he’s done and what he’ll become, and Dean thinks that’s all artistry is, really.

So no, he doesn’t mind it. There’s something inherent in the violence that Dean can appreciate. S’not like he hasn’t already given mayhem his virginity, made him dirty-pretty, altogether.

He’s nineteen, and he knows he looks and doesn’t look it, in equal measures. People are willing to overlook the gentle lines of his features for the blade in his voice, and he likes it that way.

He’s flashed his ID already, and these bar stools are anything but comfortable, leather and wood, dark brown to hide the stains. There’s a plethora of lights overhead, now, and Dean can feel the shift that comes from a change in atmosphere, and it’s welcome, cause it’s expected.

He’s knocked back three shots of whiskey, and he’s breaking his own rule by ordering tequila immediately afterwards.

He flicks the lime off with the edge of his thumb, watches the way it brushes against the salt on the rim as it topples to the counter.

He’s on the edge of loose, right now, aware enough to remember that Sam’s gonna be studying til late this evening, probably a little after midnight.

He snorts into his empty shot glass, taps the counter once for another.

That sounds like a particularly bad load of bullshit, but Dean knows Sam enough to know that it’s true. Kid’s got his first AP final where he’s been in the same state, let alone school, for the entirety of the curriculum.

He’s convinced there’s a method to the madness, and that it involves a seance with all of his nerdy ass friends, and maybe a ouija board to connect with the spirits of deceased test-makers, but Sammy ain’t stupid enough to fool around with shit like that.

Dean’ll be home before he’s closed his last textbook, little after, at the latest. He’s not here for all night, he just wants to breathe.

Fuck, they say a body can’t forget instinct, but Dean can’t remember what it means to feel alive, to feel the hum of power laced in bone, to subjugate and receive in tandem. How’s he supposed to survive if that’s no longer an option?

Nobody ever offered Dean another plan. Sammy never needed one, his boy’ll fit wherever he’s pushed. He’s a chameleon. He twists his capable little body into whatever sphere you mean for him to be in. He’s smart, pattern recognition, algorithms for senseless tasks.

He can play at dull too, smile sun-bright until you’re feeding him the cookies you just baked, got him swinging long, supple legs on your clean countertop, and how much sugar do you take in your tea, Sammy?

Dean’s mouth twitches a fraction at the recollection. Sam’s face, all pretty-twisted, because he was reading The Professor at age ten, when most of his friends were still laboring through the Catcher In The Rye.

Dean's fucking floored at the way Sam is everything, all at once. Shouldn't get to know what you've always wanted, what you're supposed to need. Dean doesn't have the experience to know what that could do to a man.

The not wanting of it.

Dean’s head is suddenly heavy in his hands as he thinks about his brother, and he can feel the stretch of glass between his fingers, sets the shot down quickly before he breaks it into a thousand shards.

There’s a skirt a few tables down from him, sitting high with her friends, and they look like sorority sisters, here to slum it during the first warm weeks of their summer. S’May, and they’re still brand new, covered in pastels that the locals laugh at after they read them their fortunes.

Taste like long rain and broken sun, they'll say.

Dean knows the blonde one’ll spread her legs and wallet for him, same type that always wants to give her daddy something good to talk about.

Old Southern money, Dean can smell ‘em. Scent like sulfur of the damned, and Dean turns away, breakneck beat of his heart. He’s gonna drown here.

He’s more broken apart than he realizes, when he’s startled by the firm clap of a hand on his shoulder. It’s attached to someone bigger than he is, and that’s enough for Dean to sit up and take notice.

He’s drank more than he’s comfortable with, twelve to sixteen shots, but who’s counting, certainly not him.

Big and Tall looks like he benches Dean’s weight for warm-ups, but he’s quiet, which Dean can appreciate. Quiet gives way to thought.

“Looks like you’re reaching a stopping point.” The words are said passively, out of reach of females and bartenders, and it’s his secret to keep, alone.

Dean nods his head, dumbly.

“Only cause I can’t rightly figure what my next drink should be.” Dean’s words come out as hard as he means for them to be, because just because he’s too drunk to consider standing, doesn’t mean that he’s lost himself completely.

Dean doesn’t think he would be allowed to die without some kinda fail safe, just in case.

Giant orders bourbon, neat, and slides Dean his own copy. Dean watches its creation, knocks it back quick, before he can get roofied and fucking left somewhere in downtown Baton Rouge to die.

He could probably take this one in a fight, if it came down to it. Dean’s got years of experience and bruises and _death_ on his side, and the most this one knows is what a fight’s supposed to look like.

Dean rubs his throat absently, feels the twinge of burn at the release, and he doesn’t feel right, but it's somehow more, cause now he’s less than what he was.

The stranger’s eyeing him, hard enough that Dean turns to ask him just what the fuck he’s looking after, but then there’s no reason to, and Dean shuts the fuck up, even his head, first time in months.

He knows what that looks like. He can practically see the man ticking away, adding up weaknesses, pros and cons, and the stranger leans muscular arms on his thighs, black t-shirt sticking to him like rain.

“M’gonna fuck you bloody.” The man pauses, and his smile’s so damn exposed that Dean looks right back down, into the empty of his glasses.

“You already knew that, though.” The man observes. “Can tell. C’mon.” Then he’s up, and Dean’s up, and Holy God, this is what inebriation really is, after all.

Dean's behind him, and the man's spine is rigid, brown and black jacket, combat boots laced up tight. He uses his elbow to knock open the emergency exit, free hand tucks his black hair behind his ear.

S’not late enough to be this fucking god-awful nasty, it’s going on eleven at night, there’s still people on the street, but it’s a narrow alley, too slim for much light to pass through, and Dean’s done worse things in worse places.

He’s never done this, though.

“S’your name?” Dean asks, cause he wants to call the guy something, anything. Dean’s face hits the exposed brick wall suddenly, and he shuts his eyes against the rough scratch of the construction.

The man is quiet after that, and then,

“gonna be calling me God no matter what name I give you, kid.”

Dean’s not even sure if he’s supposed to understand, if he’s got enough upper functioning to be able to, because his pants are shoved down so that they’re pooled at his ankles, or as close as they can get with his boots in the way, dirty edges.

There’s a callused hand bracing the back of his neck, and he can feel the warm breath on his cheek, smoky-sweet.

Guy’s bigger than he guessed before, even. Dean wonders what kind of man this, that he’s gonna let take his virginity, why it matters so goddamn much.

“Spread ‘em.”

Not mean, but not gentle either. Thick with something Dean’s heard before, but never thought he would again, and it makes his dick jerk uncomfortably from where it’s trapped between his abs and the wall, and his ass leaps higher in the air.

The hand squeezes tighter, so sure and steady that Dean can feel himself relinquish air, and he sees the familiar white spots dance before his eyes, and he blinks so hard he thinks he’s just been the one to blind himself, in the end.

“M’gonna need you to hold still.” The words are lower than they were before, and Dean smiles against the wall, squirms on purpose, just to see what’s at the end of the chapter.

He bucks in mortification when the smooth, dry drag of a finger enters his ass, no preamble, buried to the hilt.

"Jesus Christ!"

Dean’s whimpering, hitching big breaths, cause that burns. Burns a little bright, but nothing he can’t handle. When he gets his breath back, his body under more control, it’s easier to breathe around it, but not through it, because there’s nothing but this, now.

“One more time, then?”

It’s a question now, but not actually, and the man leans low to spit at his entrance, around where his finger is splaying Dean open.

Dean gasps at the cool slick of the feeling, the easy massage of saliva into his ass, and he wants to cry.

What the fuck does he need? He arches his ass out further, unthinking, and there’s no sound this time, just two more fingers, just like that, and an immediate hand around the pink of his mouth, cause this time, he’s screaming.

It’s scorching, and he’s pushing back and away and he’s crying so hard he’s not getting enough air in with how big the man’s hands are around his face.

Shit Jesus Fuck, Dean’s breathing, all twisted together til they aren’t even structures anymore.

The man pauses, allows his hand to slide from the wet of Dean’s face.

“Tell me to stop.” It’s spoken with such an undercurrent of feeling that Dean’s thrown for a second, because this is where he says no, where he still gets his fuck, if he wants it, but he turns it back on track, because this is even less right than the wrongs he’s accustomed to.

“Hell, no.”

There’s not a break in time from Dean’s response and the man’s movements, and later, Dean might wish there was, but now, it’s only too much for him to properly dwell on, to appropriately begin to see.

It’s fucking savagery.

The man opens him up around those three fingers, and they felt like an entire hand, the way they tore up his flesh with fire, and then he’s forcing his way in. No other word for it, complete shove to the hilt, and if Dean thought he knew pain before then, he’s been wrong, cause this feels like he’s being shattered with the sole purpose to break.

The man groans so low in his throat it descends into a growl, and Dean can barely hear anything because his blood is pouring in around his ears and coalescing towards his throat, and he’s only standing by the grace of the man’s chest against his back.

“This how you want it, sweetheart?” And how an endearment can sound like a curse, Dean won’t find out for a few more years from now, but right now he’s wriggling and keening and crying, and nothing has ever hurt this damn much.

His dick’s bobbing in the air, curved down and to the left, and he can see the red-purple tinge at the crown. He’s so fucking hot for it.

The man grabs at his hips, jerks him away, his hole winking when the man’s dick exits, and Dean’s clawing his fingernails against the side of the club til they’re jagged and broken, because he wants it _back, please_

and then the man gives it to him, fucks him up and then down, and there are a few instances where Dean’s lower half actually leaves the ground, and his feet scrabble for purchase against old newspaper and food containers.

“You’re fucking soaked.” The man whispers. Dean gasps, it’s wet sounding, and the man croons in approval. “S’all on your legs, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel me?” Dean gets the sense that this is the most the man is going to say, and when the guy releases his hips so that he can spread Dean’s cheeks wider, Dean’s body sags forward.

He digs his thumbs into the meat of Dean’s ass, rubs the edge of his finger around the circle of Dean’s hole, pries it open from around where it’s already laced shut around his dick.

“Christ.” The stranger breathes, and it sounds like a confessional.

That’s all it takes, really, and Dean’s shooting against the wall, and he can’t even untangle his own hands from where they’re locked against his chest to help himself, and he can already feel the fade of consciousness, snowflake chill.

He’s not ashamed to admit that he cries a little when he wakes up, and he’s tucked neatly in the corner of the alley, bundled up in his own jacket and another, familiar one that smells a little too much like his most recent shame.

He doesn’t even feel human and he hurts, he falls once when trying to stand, and he’s still drunk, manages to take most of the impact on his left hip, cause he’ll never be able to stomach that brunt ache on his ass.

He pulls out his phone, cause it’s loud inside the bar and quieter out here, next to the trash, and that can only mean a few things.

It’s 1:17.

He’s in motion then, and every step makes him want to vomit his way to Hell, but it’s still there, the lightning hot fire, and he can _think,_ so crystal clear he wants to die with the way it is.

He’s got seventeen missed calls from Sammy, and another incoming right now.

He’s an idiot. Sam’s alone, expecting Dean to be home, or, at the very least, an explanation as to why he’s not, and now the kid’s scared. He knows it from the way Sam’s calling every minute, exactly when the seconds change over.

His phone tells him it’s 1:20, and then it immediately lights up with Sam’s name, and he laugh-sobs, cause that’s just Sammy in there, wire-thin and trembling.

They don't live far from downtown, but he's taking his turns too fast and it's wicked sharp. Slick of leftover rain on the streets, cause it's wet this time of year.

He doesn't want to touch Sammy like this, but he's gonna need his brother's help if this is gonna be anything like smooth.

So he answers the 28th call, and regrets it immediately cause Sam's chilled, tastes like hardened frost in Dean's mouth.

"Dean, where are you?" His little boy is in there, and he's concerned, and Dean knows he's got his butterfly knife tucked in between thin fingers, at the ready.

"M'outside." He knows he's slurring, so he wants it short, wants Sam to let him in and then out, but baby brother has never been a docile creature.

He can't navigate how to open his own door, so he doesn't try, cause it's his pride and joy and he won't scar her up just so she and Daddy can match.

Sam's got no such qualms, apparently, cause he jerks the door open so quick Dean whimpers, thighs are inadvertently trembling with the residue of pain, and he can't move.

"Ah, shit, Dean, why're you cryin'?" Dean winces at the broken way his boy guts out the words. Sammy's shaking, fall leaves, and Dean can't feel his fingers. He's leaning sideways and Sam's bracing him with one strong thigh and both hands.

"Please, Dean." Dean's not supposed to hear that, Sam says it so low so he can't understand, even as he grunts a little with the strain of trying to hold Dean's uncooperative body upright.

It's hushed, and Sam's only like that when he's not allowed to be the other.

Dean's tongue's too thick to form words, so he settles on noises, wants Sam to know he's not dead, but he's sorry, he'll always be sorry.

And now, a year later, Dean recalls, accepts why he’d decided to never do that again. Remembers the blanket sting as he’d settled _careful careful_ into the seat of the ‘67, too drunk to see clearly, eyes swollen from tears and liquor.

The way Sam was too big for him, for his fucking mouth and his life.

Every time Dean looks at the kid, he understands.

He can’t afford to remember how to breathe. 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics taken from Something In The Way and Polly, from Nirvana's album, Nevermind, respectively.

Dean lets Sammy pick the music every first Sunday of the month.

It’s a thing with them, and Dean acts like it pisses him off to no end, but it really isn’t that bothersome. Sammy doesn’t like anything too horrible, although his obsession with Nirvana is definitely verging on unhealthiness.

Sam spreads his legs out in the seat, tucks his hands underneath his rear, because Sam has song-ADD and tends to skip through seventeen songs an hour.

Dean thinks music ought to be appreciated, you need to let it take you places, and it can’t even lift off the ground if you keep switching the damn song every thirty seconds, Samuel.

Sammy just wrinkles his nose up, trying for righteous indignation and falling heavily short, and half-glares at Dean.

“I only get one day, Dean. I gotta make the most of it.” Dean sees the logic in that, and when does Sam ever make a flippant decision, honestly, and so he makes the best of it, usually.

Sam’s long fingers shove the cassette in, and Dean knows it’s Cobain before the warbling notes of Something In The Way exit his speakers.

Sam squirms in the seat, suppressed happiness, and Dean can barely breathe for it, because he doesn’t want to ruin this new thing between he and Sammy, the way he melts into Dean’s touch again.

The way he’s a shade less bitter than he’s been since Dad.

They go grocery shopping on the first Sunday of each month, and that’s Sam’s idea too. Dean would go whenever the fuck they ran out of wheat bread and grass-fed foods, but Sammy’s got a schedule he likes to keep, and God-forbid Dean fuck that up.

_Living off of grass and the drippings from the ceiling, but it’s okay to eat fish, ‘cause they don’t have any feelings_

Sam’s voice is too high for the dull vibe of the song, but he belts it out anyway, his absolute favorite from the album (maybe of all-time, but the jury remains out on that one.)

Dean can appreciate the song, even if it’s a little weird, and what the fuck exactly was Cobain smoking when he wrote this one?

Sam closes the passenger door carefully behind him, and Dean follows close after, wants to keep Sam directly in his line of sight. The kid’s wearing basketball shorts, he’s got practice today, later in the afternoon.

He’s obligated to go to one extra practice a month, and Sam and his friends decide the first Sunday is the best, because then they get it out of the way.

Sometimes, Dean wonders if he’s even a quarter related to Sam at all.

Dean shakes his head a little when he sees the way the shorts ride the crease of Sam’s ass, shift a little outwards as he walks. They’re black, and all Dean can focus on is the memory of the way the globes look when they’re pressed against the pale of Dean’s palms.

Shit.

He speeds up a little when Sam grabs a cart. His kid brother leans his upper body against the bar and shoves his fucking ass out, teasing in the umpteenth degree.

This is how Sam always pushes, so he can get leverage, shove off with a running start using his right foot. It’s what he’s always done since he got big enough to handle the job.

Dean still wants to growl for him to pull his jailbait ass down to a level height. If Dean’s watching, he can guarantee other people are. Sam shoves his hair away from his face in irritation, and he’s off momentum from his one-legged push, shoving them down the breakfast aisle.

Dean feels the want stirring in his blood, and he digs his palms full of half-moons from his bitten-off nails. The pain’s nothing, Dean wouldn’t even stoop to calling it that, honestly.

The ache shifts to his forehead and he’s suddenly angry at himself all over again. This is penance. This is what’s supposed to happen when you smack your little brother around, only to stick him full of your dick.

Dean adjusts himself swiftly, flips the head up so it’s tucked into the waistband of his boxers. Alright, then.

Sam chucks a box of low-fat, off-brand waffles into the cart, and Dean’s irritated all over again. “We can afford Eggos, asshat,” Dean says, clipped tone. Sam pauses the cart, jerks it to a stop by dragging the sole of one Jordan on the linoleum.

“I know,” Sam enunciates, like Dean’s hard of hearing, and retarded, at that. “I balance the checkbook--what’s your problem?” Sam’s not angry, not yet, but Dean can hear the hint of it building in his brother’s wiry frame.

Dean slides past him, momentarily forgetting that he never keeps his back to Sam, not ever. Dean turns sideways, so he can convey his anger but still keep him in eyesight.

“Nothing. M’just saying. If you want Eggos you should fucking get Eggos.” Dean makes enough money for it. He’s got two jobs, both of which he really fucking likes, in different ways. They could get all organic shit and still be in the black.

Sam huffs out his air and angles the cart around Dean. He grabs a box of blueberry-flavored Toaster Strudel, dumping that in the buggy, for Dean. Sam doesn’t like the processed sugar before he goes for his runs.

Sam is an upper-class, middle-aged white woman named Samantha, Dean confirms to himself.

“If I wanted ‘em, I’d get ‘em.” Sam’s forehead scrunches up in annoyance. “I know how much I have to spend.” Dean wants to complain again, but he can’t think of what to say to that. He just knows he doesn’t want the kid to pinch pennies, either.

Dean doesn’t knock himself bloody for that to happen. That’s not why he splits his knuckles, either, but what Sam doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

They’re in the bread aisle, and Dean acknowledges that wheat bread ain’t as bad as he makes it out to be. Sammy gets two loaves on that note, name-brand, Dean eyes with glee.

He’s about 90% back to normal, right when Sam’s reaching up for a can of corn on the top shelf. He doesn’t have to stretch very far for it, but the motion rucks the back of his shirt up, and Dean groans internally.

Can he not catch a godforsaken break on this dying planet?

The sliver of skin peeks at Dean, tantalizing, and Dean wants to run his mouth over the line, suck a bruise right there, that’ll hurt whenever Sam bends, bumps into something. His dick chubs right back up from its tilt in his boxers.

Sam’s fingers slip on the can, and three things happen at once.

First, the can clatters to the ground, bouncing off of Sam’s shin in the process. His boy doubles over and grasps at the bone, sucking in his air with a light hiss of pain.

Secondly, Dean’s dick transcends from pretty interested, to so hard he could open the rogue can of corn with it himself.

Thirdly, Dean realizes that he’s a monster.

Dean palms his dick hurriedly, way too far past appropriate to care about propriety. Sam looks up, apparently the pain has ebbed enough for him to regain normal functioning.

Sam follows the line of Dean’s hand across his cock, and his guileless eyes travel all the way up to meet Dean’s face.

He drops his leg back to the ground with a dull smack, and limps (honest-to-God limps) up next to Dean. Dean scurries backward so hard he hits his spine against their own cart, and seriously contemplates crawling into the basket.

Sam’s eyes are wide, but there’s something like awareness creeping in at the edges, and the violent swarm of Dean’s anger is buzzing it’s way back to the surface.

“Sam.” Dean grits out, when his brother presses the long line of his body against Dean’s taut one.

“You wanna see me hurt,” Sam breathes, and now he’s gone and done it. He’s fucking let it out on open air, and sucked away any of Dean’s chances at plausible deniability.

“S’not it.” Dean says lowly, holds his ground.

Sam’s eyes are grassy and open when he looks up again, sucks the plush of his lip in between Colgate-white teeth.

“Then what is it?” Sam pauses, vixen in his voice momentarily unsure. “You gotta tell me.”

Dean does. He does.

After what they’ve been doing, the pretty way Sammy spreads for him, he’s gotta tell the boy something. He loves him so much.

He grabs Sammy’s arm, the thick of the muscle giving in his grip. He digs in so deep he can feel the heat bleeding out from between the webbing of his fingertips, and Sam arches up and into him, mouth parted on a weak gasp of pain.

Dean releases him with some difficulty, and realizes he’s gonna be navigating this store with a vicious hard-on, whether he likes it or not.

“I want _that.”_ Dean hisses, and it’s so hungry that Sam’s eyes flutter shut.

They finish the rest of the trip in silence.

-

Sam plays Polly on the way home, and looks at Dean the entire time.

_Let me clip your dirty wings_

_Let me take a ride_

_I want some help_

_To please myself_

Dean grinds his entire fist down against his cock, makes sure Sammy sees him do it. “Stop testing me, Sam.” Dean says, but it’s a hollow plea, at best. Sam’ll do whatever he wants, and Dean, God help him, will allow it.

Dean manages to put the perishable items away, but that’s only because Sam is helping, pulling his little body this way and that, small grunts of effort with every stretch. Has it always been that way? Has Sam always dug under his skin so tight he can’t figure out where the boy starts?

Sam doesn’t even get the chance to close the last cabinet door when Dean slams into him from behind, and the cry that leaks from Sam’s throat has Dean gripping the base of his cock with his free hand. He bends Sam over double, his torso resting against the cool of the counter.

Sam grunts underneath him, squirms, and Dean braces his forearm on Sam’s shoulder blades. He’s not going anywhere.

“Quit movin’, m’not letting you up.”

Sam doesn’t answer, just pushes that peach of an ass back further, and Dean realizes he’s an idiot. He cocks his hips closer and moans, loud in the enclosed space of their kitchen, as Sam grinds that jailbait ass right into the rod of his dick.

Sam’s moan almost supersedes Dean’s, and he wraps his fingers around Sam’s throat and squeezes. He waits until Sam’s breath stutters to a stop, and then waits some more, until he can feel the salt of Sam’s tears drip onto his knuckles.

He releases him then, and he’s about to blow at the sound of Sam dragging his air so desperately, the way Sam can’t seem to catch his breath, no matter how hard he tries.

Dean drapes more of his heavy weight over his brother, makes it that much harder.

“C’mon,” Sammy gets out, breathy with desperation and latent discomfort.

It’s so damn good like this.

“What, Sammy? C’mon with what?” Dean goads, jerks his brother’s shorts down so that they pool against the ground, make a curtain for his high-tops.

Dean drops to his knees, cracks bone on linoleum, but he can’t even feel it. He spits against his brother’s hole, watches it wink at him in fear. He digs in then, so fucking sloppy, with abandon, and Sam’s keening above him, little body trembling against the knobs of the drawers.

Dean presses his tongue flat and then swirls it clockwise, stiffens it to a point and drives it inside. He stabs it, over and over again until he can see the swollen ridge of his brother’s dick, trapped against counter and abdomen.

Dean removes his mouth long enough to shove his thumb inside, and Sam’s hips buck up. Dean grabs Sam’s sack with his open hand, tugs down and squeezes, and Sam screams, high and helpless.

Jesus.

Dean nibbles at the swollen rim, and then bites down harder, screws his thumb inside deeper at the same time. Sam’s sobbing, rightly so, and Dean has to stop everything to drag his pants down low enough for his dick to spring free, unfettered.

He huffs in his air before he leans back in, tucks his index in right alongside his thumb. He pinches his way up Sammy’s thigh, sharp snake bites that make his boys tanned legs thrash and attempt to kick back.

One pinch is deep enough for blood, and Dean eyes it, how pretty it is, and he can barely breathe for the looking, the crimson tide.

Dean stands, continues his thick glide in and out of Sam’s ass, throws open the cabinets above him.

“Sammy.” He says, but Sam’s slack jawed, face sliding in his own tears, body braced entirely on his right cheek, hands flopped by his face.

“Sam!” Dean repeats, slides a third finger in as he leans back down over Sam’s body to whisper in his ear. “What we got to use?” Dean’s not averse to shoving in dry, and the thought is enough to make his dick throb in sympathy.

But that’s the kind of hurt he can’t put on Sammy. Not without talking about it first.

That’s the kind of thought that makes this more wrong than Sam gets, the fact that he thinks Dean’s got limits, and Dean only imposes false ones for Sam’s benefit. There’s nothing that Dean wouldn’t do if he could get away with it.

Nothing he doesn’t want to break open and rip to shreds.

He needs so much more, each time.

Sam hiccups in his throat, lifts his tear-stained head up a fraction.

He’s gorgeous this way, blood on his lower lip, hair sticking to sweat and salt on his face.

“Got cooking oil,” Sam waves his hand limply. He hauls in a breath, catches Dean’s eyes permanently, already had them, always got them.

“Gonna fuck me up before practice?” Sam seems to gather all his courage, kid’s got enough of it in reserves to fuel an army, Dean thinks dryly, and continues. “Wanna leak you all over when I play, all down my legs--”

“Shut the fuck up. Jesus Sam. Fucking Christ. Close your goddamned mouth.” Sam’s mouth snaps shut, and Dean tries to think of anything on this Earth that will make his dick come back from the point of no return.

Dean jerks open a cupboard, and lo and behold the oil stands, right next to some spices that Sam swears bring out the natural juices of his chicken.

His hand almost slips on the bottle and he unscrews it with the edge of his teeth, years of practice. He soaks his dick with it, splashing some on Sam’s hole and his fingers for good measure. Things half empty when he slaps it back onto the counter, but then he jerks his fingers free and feeds Sam every fat inch of his dick, no pauses, do not pass Go.

He rams in the last two inches, too impatient to wait, registers how loudly Sam is moaning underneath him, writhing, that tight ass trying to bounce back and forth from where he’s speared wide-open on dick and ache.

“Gonna--” Sam chokes on his own air, “gonna sit there all day?” Dean wraps his fist in Sam’s long hair and twists, pulling Sam’s neck back so that the kid can barely breathe, let alone talk.

Dean rears away and then back in, takes his other hand and shoves three fingers into Sam’s slack mouth. “C’mon, Sammy. Suck on ‘em. Know you wanna do something with that big mouth of yours.”

Sam slurps loudly around his digits, obscene in his enthusiasm. Dean pounds away, no slow strokes, knows that Sam’s hip bones are gonna bruise from the collisions they keep taking against the edge of the wood.

He likes the thought.

He wants to see Sam hold himself rigid.

Dean jerks his fingers free and pauses in his thrusts to tuck one finger in, next to his dick. Loves the way Sam winks around him, the strain to fit everything Dean wants to give.

“Fucking broken on my dick, Sam, wish you could see.” Sam’s voice comes out, barely more than a whisper, and Dean draws cock and finger back in unison, slams the home in a wide circle.

“What, baby? Speak up.” Dean says, twists his hips and aims for that small bundle of nerves.

Sam shudders to pieces beneath him, and Dean reaches a hand down between them, drags fingernails down the open V of Sam’s thighs, raises scratch marks.

Sam whimpers loudly. Dean repeats it on the lean muscle of Sam’s other inner thigh, and Sam’s body bucks up and away.

He’s gonna come from that involuntary resistance, alone.

“C’mon sweetheart, what were you gonna say?” Dean grits out, breath faltering from the still-tight stretch of Sam around his dick and finger, hungry slurp of his ass.

He catches the sheen of oil on Sam’s hole, and it’s blood-red, so damn swollen and sensitive-looking.

“Said, take a picture then, if you want me to look.” The demand is still lower than usual, but Sam’s voice is adamant, and Dean doesn’t think he can take anymore of this.

Dean brings his right hand down on Sam’s ass, slaps it so violently it ripples against his palm. Sam’s face slaps back down to the counter as Dean relinquishes his hair, and his boy shudders out a scream.

Dean tugs his finger free and Sam whimpers in loss.

He deals blows out to each cheek now, to match every one of his thrusts, until Sam’s hollering, chuffs of lost air in his throat.

“Hurts, hurts, fuck Dean, hurts so bad, shit, Jesus,” Sam rambles, but Dean won’t stop, can’t stop, and Sammy’s rocking his tight body back and forth from where he’s speared, even as he jerks away from the brand of Dean’s punishing hands.

Dean stops after thirty, he thinks, and grabs the flesh in his palms, squeezes until it’s just another layer of pain on the last.

“Unh, gonna die, Dean, gonna die,” and Dean releases the grip he holds on Sam’s ass.

“Not yet, Sammy,” Dean promises.”M’not ready to let you go.”

Sam’s hands wind back, trembling so much they almost don’t make it, Dean notes, and then the cool of Sam’s own palms curl around his burning cheeks. Dean continues his heavy swivel inside the trap of Sam’s ass, and watches, dumbfounded, as his little brother’s fingertips turn white.

Sam slides his digits up into the crease, an inch away from Dean’s dick, and pries his ass open even further. It’s a show and tell, all for Dean, Sam, displaying himself like this.

Dean doesn’t have even half a chance, after that, and he manages two more strokes before he’s coming, splattering inside the warmth of Sam’s channel. He tugs Sam up by his hips, pulling him even further onto Dean’s dick.

“Taste it,” Dean grunts, grinds Sam’s compliant body down onto the ridge of his cock.

“Fucking taste me,” Dean repeats, and then Sammy shoots everywhere, body spasming from its chokehold on Dean’s dick. His arms flutter helplessly, and Dean watches in reverence as Sam comes across the counter he just cried on.

Dean glances at the clock on the microwave, realizes that Sam’s got practice in fifteen. Dean tugs free regretfully, watches the frisson of pain lance through Sam’s body as he leaves his brother empty.

Dean tries to catch his breath but quickly abandons the effort, realizing it’s worthless. Sam is holding his body up, both hands propped against the granite.

Dean leans over his shoulder.

“Sam?” He says, uncomfortable, ashamed. Sam’s face is pink when he turns to face him, and he leans down, tugs his shorts back up.

Dean turns toward the sink, away. “You wanna--” his voice trails off and he waves his arm in the air, finishes his sentence.

Sam’s head is ducked low for a second, but when he looks up, the flush is back, but it’s more heated than before.

“Told you,” Sam says, hobbles closer to Dean, ass ruined for anyone but his big brother. “Wanna feel you on my thighs when I play.”

Dean thinks he could paint this boy red forever, and it still never be enough. 

 


End file.
